


ice for their fevers

by dustofwarfare



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, First Kisses, M!Byleth - Freeform, M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Weird Courtship, byleth is a weirdo and so is jeritza it is love, courting the death knight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22806322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare
Summary: Byleth wants to kiss him, but he knows Jeritza must be approached in careful increments, like unfamiliar battle terrain.------Byleth and Jeritza take a moment for a ride outside the monastery walls, and share their first kiss.
Relationships: Jeritza von Hrym/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 10
Kudos: 294





	ice for their fevers

**Author's Note:**

> I based the location of Bartels on Constance saying she knew Mercedes as a child, and House Nuvelle's location on the map. Making up fake climates is my jam, what. 
> 
> Title from my ultimate Bylitza song, _Conversation 16_ by The National.

It is one of those rare moments when the war machine is running smoothly; no hitches, no breakdowns in the supply lines, no sudden influx of bandits and rogues swarming imperial army outposts. The Black Eagle Strike Force, poised as they always are for springing into deadly and efficient action, often are not well-equipped to deal with moments of unexpected downtime. 

Byleth takes a stroll around the monastery mid-morning and finds his former students engaged in the usual sorts of activities; Caspar is training, and nearby, Linhardt is ostensibly “reading” but is in fact napping under a tree with a book on his chest. Dorothea is singing in the greenhouse, Ferdinand attends to the horses while Petra, seated nearby, re-strings her bow. Bernie is hiding in her room and Edelgard and Hubert are locked up discussing strategy and looking at maps. Felix is, as ever, at the training pitch, Sylvain is chatting up a few knights in the dining hall, and Annette and Mercedes are baking sweets in the kitchen. 

Everyone else is similarly engaged in taking time for themselves, so Byleth goes to find Jeritza. He expects him to be in the training pitch, perhaps sparring with Felix -- but he is not there. Nor is he in the kitchens with his sister, or checking on his massive warhorse, or even enjoying a sweet treat in the dining hall. 

Byleth finds him eventually, sitting up on the western wall of the monastery. The wind stirs his hair, and while he looks as remote as ever, Byleth knows Jeritza well enough to see the fine lines of tension in his frame, the way he goes a bit too long without blinking as he stares off into the distance. Jeritza, more than any of them, is not well-suited to idleness. 

“What,” he says, flatly, hearing Byleth approach. His icy eyes flicker over briefly at Byleth and then back to the horizon. 

Byleth steps next to him and stares out at the sloping hills, at the Oghma mountains in the distance.

It’s nice. Peaceful. Not too long ago the fields were littered with corpses, the grass soaked in blood. Byleth wonders if that’s what Jeritza is looking for, remnants of carnage. If he misses it. Probably. He is not a creature made for peace. 

Neither is Byleth. It didn’t take a war for him to know how to kill. The only difference is the strangeness of doing it for principles, not money. He wonders what his father would think, were he still here, about all of this. His former students, who all ride into battle for something -- their ideas of nobility, their hope for a new world, their loyalties, their vengeance. So much emotion in the way they fight. 

Not Jeritza. He kills for pleasure, and it is as impersonal in its own way as doing it for gold. There is no quarrel in it. 

“Would you like to go somewhere with me?” Byleth asks. 

Jeritza turns to look at him. “Go, where? Do you want to spar with me?” 

Byleth shakes his head. “No. Somewhere quiet.” 

Jeritza stands a little straighter. “Perhaps,” he allows. “Where did you wish to go?” 

He doesn’t really have an answer, other than _not here._ “Out of the monastery. Just for a little while.” 

Jeritza blinks, slow and languid. “Are there enemies approaching? A threat to be scouted, then?” 

Byleth shakes his head. “No.” 

“Then why ride out, if no foe awaits?” 

Byleth considers him for a moment, then places a very careful hand on Jeritza’s arm. Jeritza tenses immediately, perceiving touch as a threat, as someone who’s gotten past his armor. Byleth means him no harm, but he can understand the instinct. 

“There are a lot of people, here,” Byleth says. Sometimes he can feel them, echoes in his head like footsteps. 

“I do not like it, either, but we have made oaths to the Emperor. I have sworn my sword and my scythe to her service.” Jeritza glances down at Byleth’s hand. The corded muscles of his arm do not relax, but he does not pull away. 

Byleth feels a rush of warm affection. Jeritza’s strange mix of savagery and loyalty is endearing, somehow. Bizarre, to be sure, but constant and reliable -- something Byleth’s life has been sorely missing, ever since the Holy Tomb. 

Before that, if he’s honest. Since waking up and telling Jeralt about that odd dream of a green-haired girl. Since Remire, and the fight where he’d first stopped time. It’s been hard to find anything that he could count on, any stable ground beneath his feet. 

“Just the afternoon,” Byleth assures him. “We’ll be back by nightfall.” 

Jeritza stares at him, long enough that anyone else would be nervous, clearly trying to parse what this means. “You wish for my company, outside of the monastery, for no reason that pertains to the war.” His expression turns vaguely suspicious. “Byleth,” he says, and it occurs to Byleth that Jeritza is the only one who ever uses his name _._ “Is this - because you are _courting_ me?” 

Byleth nods, confident even though he’s never done this before. 

(They’d discussed it at tea a week or so ago, when Jeritza had picked up the rose Byleth laid across his plate and asked, hesitantly, _Are you courting me, Byleth_? 

How lovely his name had sounded, in Jeritza’s sleepy, dream-like drawl.

 _Yes,_ Byleth said, sipping his own tea. He felt a strange, exhilarating nervousness at admitting it. 

_I dream of killing you, still,_ Jeritza said, bringing the flower to his face, touching the petals to his mouth. _Is that all right?_ How sincere he’d been, when he’d asked. 

The sight of the blood-red blossoms against his lips made Byleth dizzy. Jeritza was lovely but strange enough that the sight of him drove most of their comrades-in-arms away. Byleth liked that about him, the ingrained _otherness_ that he wore without care. 

_It’s all right,_ he’d told Jeritza. And meant it. _You don’t have to hide what you are. Not from me._ )

“Oh.” Jeritza straightens. “All right. We will take my horse.” 

Byleth gently pats him on the arm. Jeritza very carefully reaches out and takes Byleth’s hand in his own, then bows over it. He does not kiss it, but his breath is warm on Byleth’s bare hand, and it makes Byleth shiver a little in response. 

Byleth likes these touches. So at odds with both Jeritza’s aloofness and the Death Knight’s savagery, they feel like something Byleth has earned. Something just for him. 

Before he leaves, Byleth goes to find Edelgard. “I will be gone for the afternoon, is there anything you need from me before I leave?” 

She looks up, a little frown between her brow. “Is everything all right, professor?” 

“Have you news of an incursion?” Hubert demands, from her side. 

Byleth shakes his head with a calm smile. “Nothing like that. This is a personal matter.” 

Edelgard’s frown smooths, and her mouth quirks up. “Professor,” she says, in as teasing a tone as he thinks she can manage. “Are you going on a _date_?” 

Byleth nods. Perhaps his cheeks burn a bit. Maybe. 

Edelgard clears her throat, but she’s still smiling. “Well, my teacher, I think you have more than earned it. But please don’t tarry. If you aren’t back by nightfall, I fear I will worry.” 

“And we cannot spare troops to seek you out, should you and your...date...require assistance. I’m sure you understand,” Hubert adds. 

“Hubert, I _really_ do not think that will be a problem,” Edelgard murmurs. She gives him a pointed look. “The professor is more than capable of seeing to his safety.” 

Hubert bows. “Of course. I meant no offense. Merely doing my duty.” 

“I understand. We will be back by nightfall.” Byleth doesn’t bother mentioning who is going with him, because everyone already knows. You do not give the Death Knight roses and serve him tea in your personal quarters without someone finding out about it. 

***

Jeritza’s horse is named Mari Lwyd. In battle, it is an imposing, massive black stallion draped in obsidian armor and shrouded in a funereal caparison. Outside of battle and bereft of all adornment, it is still rather fearsome, requiring separate accommodations since it does not get along well with any of the other mounts. 

Rather like its rider. 

Byleth has never been entirely comfortable on horseback. The nomadic lifestyle he lived with his father did not lend itself well to the upkeep of any sort of cavalry, and horses were not cheap. When he’d arrived at the monastery, Byleth found the only animals that were not skittish around him were the wyverns. 

Byleth finds Jeritza near the paddock, the horse at his side, idly stroking his neck and feeding him a carrot, which -- well. It’s incongruous enough that Byleth smiles upon seeing it. 

Jeritza does not smile, but he nods at Byleth when he approaches. “Hold out your hand,” he commands, and Byleth does so without hesitation. “Approach slowly. She does not much care for strangers.” 

She? Byleth’s eyebrows raise. He’d assumed the horse was a stallion, but Byleth really doesn’t know anything about horses. But this one, her ears go flat and she makes a snuffing sound as Byleth gets closer, though Jeritza makes a _shhh_ sound and strokes her neck again. 

“This is not our foe,” Jeritza says to the horse. He nods at Byleth, who simply holds his hand out and lets the warhorse sniff it. 

Her snuffing stops, her ears twitch back upright and she noses at his hand. Jeritza hands him another carrot, and Byleth solemnly presents it to Mari Lwyd. She takes it with a little grunting sound, like any other horse would. He wonders where Jeritza found her, if he would tell Byleth if Byleth asked. 

“All right. She will permit you to ride her, if you are with me.” 

Byleth eyes the horse. “Do we need a saddle?” He is pretty sure horses need those. 

“No. She will remain calm under my hand. I think perhaps she was something else, for a time. Maybe she still is.” Jeritza does not explain that, merely swings himself up on the horse’s back with ease and holds a hand to Byleth. “I shall assist you.” 

Byleth puts his hand in Jeritza’s, unsure if this will work, but Jeritza is strong enough to get Byleth up on the horse in front of him. He takes the reins, nudges the horse, and she begins to move easily toward the gates. 

No one tries to stop them as they leave. Jeritza is a warm weight behind him, the closeness of their positions making Byleth shiver pleasantly in awareness. This feeling of attraction, of desire for another, is new to him. 

“Where are we going, then?” Jeritza asks. He holds the reins in simple gloved hands, his voice soft. 

Byleth glances around, then shrugs and points vaguely off into the distance. He has no real destination in mind. Just somewhere, away from the monastery and the town and all the people who inhabit both. There is no true quiet anymore, and he misses it. 

Byleth likes the competency with which Jeritza rides, the effortless way he maneuvers the warhorse. It’s attractive, and Byleth thinks it is probably due to Jeritza’s upbringing; Death Knight or not, he is a noble. It’s the same with most of the nobles in the Black Eagles Strike Force, come to think of it, with the exception of Felix (who is too obstinate) and Caspar (who is too loud). 

Eventually Jeritza draws the horse to a stop, and they dismount. Mari Lwyd nibbles on grass, and Jeritza produces the black caparison from -- somewhere -- and puts it on the ground to serve as a blanket. He sits, knees bent, one arm propped upon them, and looks up at Byleth. 

Byleth sits next to him. It’s very quiet. He can feel himself relax, muscles he didn’t know were tense beginning to ease. It is warm and bright, and the only sounds are the birds and the occasional rustle of some small creature in the grass. 

“It’s nice here.” Byleth turns his face up to the sky. “Quiet.” 

“Yes.” Jeritza’s profile is lovely in the bright sun. He does not look like a demon. He is dressed in simple riding clothes, breeches and boots and a loose black tunic, hair gathered in his usual queue and tied neatly with its customary black ribbon. 

“What was it like, where you grew up?” Byleth asks, curious. He doesn’t know anything at all about House Bartels other than it is now gone, and all he knows about Hrym is that it’s near the mountains on the border between the Empire and the Alliance.

“Bartels territory was near the Western sea.” Jeritza idly brushes a strand of wheat-colored hair from his face. “It was...warm, but it stormed often. In the middle of the day, even when the sky was blue and you would not think of rain.” He turns to Byleth. “I know not where you are from.” 

Byleth shrugs. “The monastery, or so my father told me. But we never stayed in one place very long.” He remembers tents pitched by rivers in the warmer months, curling up drowsy in front of hearthfires in an inn when it was too cold to sleep outside. “What about Hrym?” 

“It is...harsher, there.” Jeritza stares off into the horizon. “The mountains are dangerous and thick with forests. But it is also close to the sea. I --” he pauses, then says in a voice that sounds almost surprised, “I like the ocean. It…calms me.” 

Byleth is charmed by the admission. “We should go there, when the war is over.” 

“I will not return to Bartels land,” Jeritza says. “I swore it to the princess when she gave me a new name. None who could claim relation to my former house still live, but that does not mean those who dwell nearby are safe from the Death Knight. I do not care for my childhood home. I would lose myself.” 

Fair enough. “Hrym, then. You seem to like it there.” 

“I do not understand you,” Jeritza says, bluntly. “I have spoken of my desire to kill you -- thinking of it arouses me. And yet you court me with flowers and speak of accompanying me to the place where my demon slaughters in abandon, without conscience or mercy. You leave the safety of our fortress alone with one who aches to bury his sword in your throat. What manner of person are you?” 

_I think I might have been the goddess._ Byleth shrugs. “A strange one. But I like you.” 

“I truly cannot fathom why,” Jeritza says. “I am hardly likable. Only my sister tolerates my company. And the little archer.” 

“Bernadetta,” Byleth reminds him. It keeps Jeritza more present, if he uses people's names, remembers they are allies. Byleth reaches up, very carefully, making it clear he is going to touch Jeritza’s hair. 

Jeritza acts on reflex and curls his fingers around Byleth’s wrist, but does not grab or push his hand away, so Byleth smooths the errant strands back behind Jeritza’s ear. When Jeritza makes no move to further stop him, Byleth draws his fingers down the elegant curve of Jeritza’s jaw. “I think you’re...lovely.” 

Courting doesn’t come very easy to Byleth, either. 

“You are foolish to play so with me,” Jeritza says, but his voice is breathless, so much so that he sounds a bit like his sister. “I am not unaware that you are desirable. I see others look at you. They would be...happy, if you were to bring them here. Touch them gently. Gift them with roses.” 

Byleth raises one shoulder. “Maybe so.” He daringly runs the backs of his fingers against Jeritza’s lower lip. 

Jeritza gives a sharp inhale, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on Byleth’s wrist. “Safer for you, to turn your gaze elsewhere.” 

“Maybe,” Byleth says, softly, “but it would just come back to you.” 

“If I did not know you, I would think you meant this as a trap. Or some cruel-hearted trickery.” 

“No. I am not like that.” Byleth wants to kiss him, but he knows Jeritza must be approached in careful increments, like unfamiliar battle terrain. He dares to slide his hand down lower, over the side of Jeritza’s neck. His pulse beats delicately against his fair skin. Byleth is fascinated by how it feels against his fingers. 

Jeritza shudders. “No one touches me,” he breathes, in that languid voice. “No one _dares_.” 

“I do,” Byleth says, a little smugly. He smiles. “Maybe I like a challenge.” He worries for a moment that sounds as if this is some game to him, when it isn’t. As inexperienced as he is in these matters, he knows that much. 

Jeritza doesn’t seem to take offense. “You are an odd man. Perhaps that is why you wished to court me. I am the only one as strange as you.” 

It’s such a perceptive and un-Jeritza-like thing to say that Byleth _laughs_ , the sound loud enough to startle a few birds from a nearby tree. “That is probably part of it, yes. Jeritza?” 

“What?” 

“I would like to kiss you,” Byleth says, stroking lightly at the back of his neck. Jeritza is still holding onto him, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin of Byleth’s wrist. Byleth has never kissed anyone before. But it seems like this is a good time to try it out. 

“Oh.” Jeritza’s lashes lower. His eyes aren’t the summer blue of Mercedes', more the color of a winter sea with all the warmth drawn away. “I will not stop you.” 

That’s good enough for Byleth. He shifts so he’s kneeling, and leans in -- carefully, slowly, giving Jeritza plenty of time to move away if he wants. Jeritza moves not at all, so Byleth presses his mouth to Jeritza’s. 

He has never kissed anyone, and the sensation is -- strange. Jeritza, for all his coldness, is shockingly warm; his fingers on Byleth’s wrist, his mouth against Byleth’s own. Byleth’s only other experience being this close to other people is either killing them on the battlefield or carrying the injured off it. There has been no place in his life for this careful measured consideration, the sweet burn of desire for another’s touch. 

It’s probably not a very good kiss, but Jeritza kisses him back, so. Maybe not that bad. 

It’s also very chaste. The positioning of their bodies -- Jeritza reclining and Byleth kneeling -- isn’t quite the best for anything other than a strained neck. 

Byleth moves back to the blanket, and stretches out on his side, propped up on his elbow. “Would you lay on your back for me?” 

Jeritza’s breath escapes in a huff, and his nostrils flare while he considers the question. Byleth doesn’t push; it is a vulnerable position, with one’s stomach and throat exposed. Especially for a man like Jeritza. 

But he surprises Byleth by nodding, then stretches his long body out on their makeshift blanket. Byleth can tell he’s tense -- though from desire or wariness, Byleth isn’t sure. Perhaps both. 

“Thank you.” Byleth shifts a bit so he’s braced above Jeritza, and then leans down and kisses him again. It’s much easier this way, and he finds himself following his instinct to deepen the kiss, mouth opening. 

However Jeritza feels about being on his back, he opens his mouth for Byleth and kisses back without hesitation. It is not long before Byleth feels himself stir as their kisses grow more and more heated. 

“You can touch me,” Byleth says, against Jeritza’s mouth. He lays a careful hand on Jeritza’s chest, fascinated by the way Jeritza’s heart beats. “If you like.” 

Jeritza does, though his touches are careful, light -- nothing like the man he is in battle. Byleth can barely feel the slight pressure of Jeritza’s hand moving up his back. When Byleth pulls away from their kisses to breathe, he’s caught by the way Jeritza looks -- his mouth is wet, his lips are parted, and his pale eyes are bright against the red of his flushed cheeks. 

Jeritza hesitantly touches his fingers to Byleth’s mouth. “Perhaps now when I dream of killing you, I will also dream of this. Of tasting your last breath as you die on my blade.” 

Byleth smiles despite himself, catching hold of Jeritza’s wrist and pressing a kiss to his fingers. “Or my tasting yours, as you die on mine.” Byleth doesn’t want to kill Jeritza, but he knows what such talk does to him. 

Jeritza shudders visibly and reaches out for him. “Kiss me again. I would have it perfect, in my dreams. And I already know well enough how to kill.” Jeritza gives him the faintest of smiles. 

Byleth wonders what he might have been, in a world where he was unshaped by cruelty and neglect. Just a nobleman lounging for an afternoon with his sweetheart -- though Byleth doubts it would be him. They are drawn to each other for what they are, dark and strange as they may be, not for what they might have been. In some other life, they would not have been each other’s. 

But in this one...

Byleth leans in and kisses him, again. His hand rests on Jeritza’s heart. Jeritza’s hand curls loose around Byleth’s throat, a threat and a promise. 

In this life, it would seem they are.

**Author's Note:**

> The name of Jeritza's horse, Mari Lwyd, is from a [wassailing folk custom from South Wales](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mari_Lwyd), in which a hobby horse is made from a horse skull and a sackcloth. That seems like Jeritza.


End file.
